


Sweet Dreams

by The_Hinky_Panda



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-06 11:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11599464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Hinky_Panda/pseuds/The_Hinky_Panda
Summary: Missy Dubois grew up on the other side of the stream from the Dixons. After the outbreak, Merle and Daryl run into Missy who has had a unique reaction to the virus. As they try to protect her from people who want to exploit and dissect her, they walk down a crooked path of memories and wonder about all three of their futures.





	1. Chapter 1

Aiken, South Carolina

She remembers rocking chairs.

It is the closest thing to a plantation home that she has come across in a long time. Her memory, dim as it may be, recalls that joy at seeing white columns of a wide veranda wrapping around the large home. It is a country club that she has wandered into but it has rocking chairs on the veranda. 

The wooden porch steps creak and flaking paint falls away as she clumsily makes her way up to the chairs, dropping carelessly into the porch furniture. She feels as if she should rest but the need is absent. Just as she feels her lungs should struggle to take in breath but that too is an unnecessary requirement for her body. She glances down at her watch. 11:58 pm. She stares at the delicate gold hands until they both line up with the Roman numeral for 12. 

Removing the dagger from her boot, she draws the blade across her leg, a couple inches above her knee. She returns the dagger to its sheath around her ankle, sighing in the disappointment of not seeing blood rise to the break in her skin. Forty-two tally marks adorn her leg now. 

Forty-two days since she woke up as a walker. 

Forty-two days she has walked from the ruble of her home in Northern Georgia. 

Forty-two days of waiting for the disease to turn her into the mindless, flesh-eating creatures she has passed along her trek. 

From her vantage point on the porch, she stares out across a still lake and the rolling hills of an unkempt golf course. It is quiet here, in this little town. She passed through what was left of the downtown. Clothes still hang on mannequins. Windows are unbroken of restaurants and general stores. Even the painted horses remain unscathed by the end of the world. Walkers and humans both have left this place untouched. 

It is perfect. She will stay. 

Standing up, she totters on her partially decaying legs but she finds her balance quickly. She is finding it easier, faster, gaining her equilibrium after times of immobility. Her mind is still full of holes, memories flashing through in a disjointed and confusing fashion. That is why, as she stands on the weathered wood of the porch, she takes time to verbally identify her surroundings. 

“Water.” No, there’s a more specific word for it. Her lips form a letter and a puff of air escapes from her mouth. 

“P. P. Pond.” Yes, that is the word. There are other words that mean the same thing but she doesn’t push too hard for those. She rests her mottled-skinned hands on the railing that wraps around the porch. Since she’s on a roll with “p” words, she continues her routine. “Porch. Railing. Rocking chair. Grass. Green.” 

She walks over to the entrance and peers through the glass into the lobby. She touches the black painted wood reverently. “Door. Black. Paint.” She applies some mild pressure and the door swings open easily. Stale, humid air wafts over her but she draws it into her non-functioning lungs anyway. 

“Marble. Light.” She stands under the magnificent crystal and brass lighting fixture. A brief mental picture comes to her mind of what this might look like lit. Soft light casting prisms off the shards of carefully cut crystal. It is beautiful and very fleeting but there is a word, a large one that is making its way from the back of her throat and dancing across her tongue. She tries it out but ends up hissing like the cottonmouth snake she accidentally stepped on by a stream. 

“Ssssss….Sssshhhh.” No, not quite. She closes her eyes and concentrates. Not “sh,” but rather “ch.” But the sounds are similar. “Chan…” Yes, that sounds right. She pushes through the word in faltering sounds. “Chan…de…lier. Chande…lier. Chandelier.” She says a couple more times, relief at being able to finally say something more than one or two syllables. 

She pulls on the excitement of this breakthrough and uses the energy to climb the massive staircase to the second floor. Instead of saying words, she counts the stairs instead. There are fifty-three. She walks down the hallway with the peeling wallpaper and opens the last closed door on the right. It reveals a quaintly decorated bedroom. Apparently, the clubhouse also served as a hotel. 

She moves around the room, opening empty drawers and attempting to smell the silk flowers. These are familiar actions to her and she indulges in them. Sometimes they bring memories, sometimes they don’t. Tonight, they don’t and the disappointment dries up the words on her tongue.  
The bedding is dusty but in good condition. She sits down on the side of the bed that faces the window and quietly watches another sun rise on a day of uncertainty. 

***

“Iffin ya wanted a vacation, why didn’t ya just say so?” 

Daryl Dixon did his level best to ignore his brother whenever Merle decided the fun of a scouting trip was over. It usually started with innocent comments about vacations and breaks but could quickly go south and end with one or both of them nursing broken noses. 

“You do realize we’re in South Carolina now?” 

“We’ve been in South Carolina since we crossed the river north of Augusta.” 

Merle makes a low, non-committal sound. “Jus checkin.” 

The afternoon is a typical Southern summer day: thick humid air, flocks of mosquitoes, and the sun beating down on them through a canopy of trees. They had brought a truck from the prison but had to leave it when the bridge over the river was collapsed. So now, they are on foot and Merle is getting testy. Daryl tries to offer an olive branch. 

“Remember that little town Mom took us to that one time? The one with the old trees and the colorful horse statues?” 

“Aiken. I remember.” Merle laughs. “You got car sick and puked all over the backseat.” 

“That’s because you were feeding me bad eggs before we left!” 

“Dinna know they were bad. Dad was eatin’ ‘em.” 

“Dad was drunk. He could’ve eaten a bar of soap and been fine.” 

Silence reigned the rest of the walk until they came across the welcome sign for Aiken. 

“So not a vacay then,” Merle says, “a walk down memory lane?” 

Daryl takes the crossbow off his back and settles it into hands. “We don’t know a whole lot about how far the walkers have gotten. I was hoping smaller towns, like this one, might be a good spot for a few runs.” 

“Might be onto something there.” Merle pulls the shotgun free from his pack and shoulders it. “Let’s take a stroll.” 

The town hadn’t changed too much from what Daryl remembered. There are a few more of the painted ponies on the main street and store names had changed but the skeleton stayed the same. His eyes start scanning the storefronts and signs above them. Pharmacies, general stores, even restaurants were the best places for finding supplies. Clothing stores, which there were plenty, were secondary but still necessary. Merle makes a low alert whistle behind him. 

“You notice anything…off?” 

Daryl looks for details and it doesn’t take long for him to see what Merle did. “Only the clothing and jewelry shops have been busted into.” 

“Who steals clothes over food nowadays?” 

It’s a question that raises the hair on Daryl’s arms. They move through town without incident though. The afternoon sun beats down on them as they load their packs with meds, bandages, and canned goods. The idea of hitting an out-of-the-way town is a solid one as they realize they need a vehicle to make this trip worthwhile. Merle drops a box of medical supplies on the counter of the general store where Daryl has been trying to figure out how to pack a set of pots and pans for Carol. 

“Sun’s getting low, little brother. I say we find a nice house, make us a nice meal, and sleep in a real bed tonight.” 

“Sounds good.” Daryl stacks the pots and pans on the floor. “Maybe find ourselves a nice pick-up to take back to the prison too.” 

“First thing in the morning. I’m sure there’s plenty of not-empty garages around this place.” 

They grab what they need for the night and begin their search for a place to sleep. Daryl notices again the broken windows in the clothing stores and it leaves his stomach unsettled. No matter how many times he tells himself that the windows could have been broken months ago, it still eats away at the back of his mind. They walk out of the downtown and through the Hopelands Gardens section. On the other side of the black wrought-iron fence, the landscape changes into what used to be a golf course. They turn a corner to see the main building of the country club sitting on the hill. It looks to be an old plantation home turned into a hotel/clubhouse. 

“Well, look at that,” Merle let out a low whistle. “Guess we’ll be staying in style tonight.” 

Leave it to his brother to choose the abandoned country club out of the thousands of homes surrounding them. What the hell, though. Daryl starts to follow Merle up the driveway when he glances up at one of the first-floor windows. A flash of movement caught his eye and he instinctively raised his crossbow. The motion stops Merle, who drops the shotgun from his shoulder and sweeps it across the large porch. 

“Whatcha see?” 

“Don’t rightly know,” Daryl answers honestly. 

“Walker?” 

“Moved too fast to be a walker.” It is entirely possible that they are not as alone as they thought they had been. They move past the still-moving rocking chair on the porch with weapons drawn and go into the building.


	2. Chapter 2

Dixon.

  
The Dixons.

  
The Dixon brothers.

  
_Damn Dixon boys…_

  
A whimper escapes her mouth and she clasps her hands over her ears. It doesn’t stop the onslaught of her father’s sharp voice with the Southern drawl.

 

_Damn Dixon boys. You stay away from them, Melissa Dubois. You hear me, girl?_

  
She hears him, too loudly and too clearly. She can’t stop hearing him. But she needs to focus so she can hear them. She had fled the rocking chair on the porch and made it to the ballroom on the first floor before she heard the front door open. She now finds herself cowering behind a thick curtain.

  
When she is able to control her unnecessary breathing, she can hear the semi-quiet footsteps of the brothers as they move through the ballroom. When bravery comes, she peers out from behind the dusty velvet and sees one of them checking the curtains on the other side. It’s difficult in the fading light and with swiss cheese for a brain to recall exactly which one it is. The answer is provided for her when her curtain is pulled away and she’s facing a…sharp, pointy thing.

  
Begins with an “a.”

  
Weapon with an “a.” Arms? No. A…ammo? No, not quite.

  
“Arrow.” The word leaves her mouth in a whisper and she can focus on the face behind the weapon. Narrowed blue-green eyes stare at her in confusion and she still can’t remember which brother is before her. Then matters become more complicated when the second brother joins them. She notices he is missing his hand, some kind of metallic cap is over the stump.

  
“Amp…ampu…” her tongue struggles with the word so she stops trying and instead says another word. “Dixons.”

  
The arrow lowers out of her eyeline.

  
“Did it just…” the arrow-bearer says in a hushed voice.

  
The other brother is less quiet and equally less eloquent. “Fuck me sideways, it talks.”

  
“It looks like a walker.”

  
“Walkers don’t talk, little brother. Sides, why is it the only one here?”

  
“Who says it’s the only one here?”

  
She closes her eyes. “Alone.”

  
“That so?”

  
She forces her eyes to open and look up at the one who had spoken. She locks eyes with him, trying to piece together her flashing memories while staring in the stormy-blue eyes. The only things that do emerge from her brain are the loud sound of a motorcycle, the smell of leather, and the feel of cheap, plastic beads. She concentrates on those things: motorcycle, leather, beads. It takes a monumental effort but a name floats from the abyss and lands on her tongue.

  
“Merle.”

  
“…the hell?!” the other Dixon turns to the-now-identified Merle.

  
“I’ll be damned.” He lowers the shotgun completely, bends over and peers closely into her face. “Missy?”

  
“Missy?!” the other says in shock. “As in Melissa Dubois?”

  
“’S’that you in there, Missy?”

  
It’s been so long since she’s heard her name. Truth be told, she had almost forgotten it completely. “Missy.” She nods once. “Yes.”

  
She slides down the wall until she’s sitting on the marble floor, her limbs akimbo. Nothing is said or done for so long her mind wanders to the point of forgetting the brothers are there. But then they both drop their weapons on the hard floor and sit a few feet across from her. They’re watching. Waiting. She reaches out to touch the tip of the arrow still loaded in the crossbow only to have it pulled out of her reach.

  
“Biter?”

  
Merle shakes his head. “Nah. It would’ve snapped at us by now.”

  
She curls her lip at the word “it.”

  
“Don’t like that, do you?” Merle laughs. “So, what are ya, huh?”

  
She stares at the floor. “Missy.” At least she hopes she still is Missy.

  
“How long have you been like this?” the other brother asks.

  
That she does have an answer to but the number escapes her. She pulls up the cotton skirt she had taken from one of the mannequins in the town and points to the score marks a couple inches above her knee. Merle watches her closely as his brother is the one who leans closer to count up the marks. Pieces of memories float across her brain as she stares at the shaggy brown hair. Water. Rocks. Pain.

  
“Daryl.”

  
He looks up at her in surprise but leans farther away from her. “Fifty-three marks. Each mark a day?”

  
“Yes.” She hopes they continue to talk to her. She hasn’t had any interaction with anything intelligent in those fifty-three days. It’s tiring but seems to be allowing words to come easier.

  
“Fifty-three days,” Merle leans back on his good hand. “Almost two months of being a walker and she can still speak. You ever seen any like this?”

  
Daryl shakes his head. “She’s actually thinking. You can see it in her eyes.”

  
“You gonna bite us, sweetheart?”

  
Daryl grimaces. “Really?”

  
A small smile tugs on the corner of her mouth though as the directness and cheekiness of the question. “No.” She takes a deep breath. “Never…bit…person.”

  
“What do you eat?” Daryl asks.

  
If she had blood running through her body, she’s certain she would have blushed. Those first few days after change had been horrifying. The hunger was so great but the disgust of consuming a live human prevented her from crossing that line. “Animals.”

  
“When was the last time you ate?”

  
“Days. Long time.”

  
“You hungry now?”

  
She wasn’t. It is just another oddity for her to add to the list. “No.”

  
“Well, I sure as hell am,” Merle stated standing up. “Where’s the kitchen, Missy?”

  
She points towards the back of the ballroom, to the door in the corner.

  
He starts off that way as Daryl scrambles to his feet. “The hell man? We just gonna leave her here? Unsupervised?”

  
Merle sighs heavily and walks back to them, leaning over to look her in the eyes. She appreciates that. He speaks to her, directly and plainly.

  
“You gonna eat us, sweetie?”

  
“No.”

  
“I’m guessing you need our help, am I right?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“You gonna sit here and be a good girl while we grab some dinner?”

  
She nods confidently, not quite sure if he was asking or telling.

  
Merle turns to Daryl. “See? No problem here.”

  
She watches Merle confidently turn his back on her and walk away. Daryl watches her a few moments closely before picking up his crossbow and following his brother. Merle is right. She does need their help. She needs someone who can figure out what has happened to her and if it can be fixed. So, she does exactly what she was told to do: she sits on the marble floor and waits for them to return.

  
***

  
“Missy Dubois.” Merle shakes his head as he tosses a couple of beers into the still working sub-zero freezer in the kitchen. “Never thought I lay eyes on her again.”

  
Daryl sits his crossbow down on one of the prep tables. “Yeah. Thought she and her family would have gotten the hell out of Georgia at the first signs of the outbreak.”

  
Merle laughs shortly. “I figured those pussys would have died out in the first week.”

  
“Maybe they did. Maybe Missy’s the only one left.”

  
“You think Missy’s still alive in there?” Merle became serious. “Think there’s enough to save?”

  
Daryl shrugs helplessly. “I’ve never seen a walker that can talk, let alone answer questions semi-intelligently.”

  
“Maybe she’s not a walker.”

  
“And maybe the walkers are evolving. Becoming even more dangerous than what they already are.”

  
Merle pushes the swinging kitchen door open a crack. Missy is still sitting right where they left her. “She’s staying put.”

  
“What’s she doing?”

  
“Nothin. Just sitting.” Merle had to admit, she didn’t look that much different than when he left her in New Orleans about twenty years ago. Her hair is a faded shade of auburn, more brown than red. Her skin and eyes are typical of a walker but there are still patches of normal coloration peeking through. “It’s like she hasn’t quite turned completely.”

  
“Fifty-three days,” Daryl says. “That’s a long time to not do a complete turn.”

  
“Well, maybe you’re onto something then. ‘Cept, it’s not the walkers that are evolving, it’s us. Maybe we’re finally changing to fight this…whatever it is.” Merle turns around with a crooked grin. “How’s that for a happy change of shit-luck?”

  
“It’d be an amazing change of luck. We should get her to the prison. See if anyone can come up better answers than we can.”

  
“Take her back to the prison?” Merle frowned, the familiar feeling of anger building in his chest. “Take her back to Officer Rick, you mean. Being a good little soldier, now, aren’t you?”

  
“What would you do with her, huh? Take her to the Governor? Buy your way back into Woodbury with a commodity?”

  
“I told you, the Governor is a nasty piece of work. He’ll dissect her, tear her apart looking for answers. Mess her up to the point where we won’t have nothin’ to show for it.”

  
“So you don’t want her to go to the Governor or the prison.” Daryl throws his hands up in frustration. “What do you want to do with her then, Merle? Turn her lose and hope for the best?”

  
“I didn’t say that either. Look,” Merle opened a couple of the pantries. “We’re pretty well stocked with food. By some miracle, we still have electricity here too. I say, we stay put for a little while. See what happens with Miss Thang in there. After a couple days, if she’s improving, we’ll revisit taking her back to Officer Rick.”

  
“And if she doesn’t improve?”

  
“Simple. Quick bullet to the brain and it’s lights out Missy.” He turns his back quickly so Daryl wouldn’t pick up on his tells that it was bluff.

  
“Would it be that simple, Merle?”

  
Dammit. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  
Daryl gives him a shit-eating grin. “Because I was the one that shoved her head in the stream and chipped her tooth when we were ten. But you were the one she called to get her out of that joke of a wedding.”

Merle shrugs haphazardly. “Jus’ did it to piss old man Dubois off.”

  
“Uh-huh. That also why you spent four days in New Orleans with her?”

  
“It’s called Mardi Gras, ya dipshit. Ya don’t just leave in the middle of the party.”

  
“Okay, whatever.” Daryl holds his hands up in surrender. “So, we stay here for a few days and keep an eye on her then.”

  
“That’s what I said.” Merle goes back to the freezer and retrieves one of the beers. “Better get to shakin’ a pot, little brother. Suns going down.”

  
Merle ignores the protests coming from his brother and goes back into the ballroom. Missy is still sitting exactly where she was told. When she hears him, she watches him careful, closely as he makes his way over to her. It’s not a bleary-eyed gaze of a typical walker. She tracks him with precision and understanding. Hell, she even blinks.

  
“You walk?”  
 


	3. Chapter 3

She follows Merle out of the ballroom, through the lobby, and back out onto the porch. He drops unceremoniously into one of the rocking chairs, and opens the can of beer he brought with him. She stands off to the side, unsure of his intentions. After waiting for a few minutes, she wonders if he’s forgotten she’s even there. She takes a step back, intending to return to the ballroom, when he breaks the silence. 

“Where ya going?” 

“Back.” 

“Back where?” 

“Inside.” 

“Why?” 

A growl rumbles in her chest. “Ignoring me.” 

He finally turns and looks her, a smile lifting one side of his mouth. “That pissin’ you off, babydoll?” 

“Yes.” The word comes out in a hiss. 

“Good.” 

He laughs. The bastard laughs at her. And all she can manage is another growl and a clenched fist. 

“Be a sweetheart and get me another beer.” 

He tosses the empty can in her general direction. It rolls to a stop near her foot and without thinking, she kicks it back towards him. It manages to glance off his knee and startles him into standing up. 

“The hell, woman?” he shouts. 

Words are especially hard for her now that anger is clouding the working parts of her brain. “Not…your…servant.” 

He stalks over to her and stops, hand on his hip and glares. “What was that?” 

She swallows down the nervousness that is creeping in on the anger and holds his glare. “Get…own…damn…beer.” 

His jaw tenses, like he’s going to say something else, when he burst out in laughter. “Holy shit, you’re really still in there, ain’t ya, Missy?”

She’s taken completely off-guard by the change in his demeanor that all she can do is stare up at him. Her confusion only increases when he takes another step even closer to her. When he speaks, she can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he squints slightly, “I’d say your eyes just got a bit greener.” 

Memories start to hurtle through her mind. Loud music ringing in her ears, plastic beads slipping through her hands, and a boisterous laugh…Merle’s laugh. She latches on to one of the memories and concentrates. She’s on a balcony, above the noise and flashing colors, with Merle. He’s leaning over her, hands resting on the wrought iron railing, his breath hot against her neck. Despite the raucous scene on the street and the intimidating stance he has taken, she feels…safe. 

“New Orleans.” 

“What?” 

She looks up at him and sees his face has completely changed. Gone is the teasing and laugh lines, caution and trepidation have replaced his cocky stance. It must be infectious because now she can’t seem to form the words at all to repeat them. Instinctively, she reaches out to touch him but when her fingers light on his arm, he jumps back from her. Her fingers curl around empty air and disappointment settles in her stomach. 

“Everything alright?” 

Both of them turn to see Daryl standing in the doorway, his hand resting on the hilt of his hunting knife. 

Merle laughs. “Everything’s just fine, brother. We was just reminiscing a bit, weren’t we?” 

The rapid swing of Merle’s mood leaves Missy dazed and silent. 

“Yeah,” Daryl stares at her. “That’s not the face women usually have when you reminisce with them.” 

“I got her a little riled up, didn’t I, babydoll?” 

He taps her lightly on the shoulder and it’s enough to bring her back to the present. She spots the dented, empty beer can on the porch and glowers up at Merle. 

“Ah,” Daryl comments, “there it is. That’s the look I’m used to seeing.” 

The jab is enough to break the tension and Missy feels a small smile tug at her lips. Merle makes a disgusted sound and heads back inside leaving just her and Daryl on the porch. The levity quickly recedes though. 

“I don’t know if you want to eat canned stew, but…” he points to the door. 

She shakes her head “no.” “Stay. Outside.” 

“Okay.” He leans forward slightly to look at her closely. “Did your eyes get greener?” 

Missy turns to stare into her reflection in the window. Her eyes had held the pale film of a walker since she woke up but both Merle and Daryl were right. The paleness has ebbed away and the true color of her eyes shines through. Daryl goes back inside and she sits in the rocking chair that Merle had abandoned. 

The sun is almost past the horizon, twilight has fallen. Lightening bugs have sprung up from the tall, unmown grass. She always waits until midnight to make the tally mark on her leg but she can’t wait that long tonight. Thoughts and memories were becoming clearer to her. Her eyes gained back their true color. Things were changing. She pulls out the knife from her boot and hikes up her skirt. She holds her breath as she drags the tip over the skin. 

Hope blooms as a small drop of blood rises to the surface and spills over the cut. 

***  
New Orleans. 

Merle’s in a pissy mood and unable to sleep because of those two words. 

New fucking Orleans. 

It’s the first time he’s slept in a proper bed since leaving Woodbury and he’s wound too tight to enjoy it. The humidity is too thick in the air and the sweat on his skin doesn’t evaporate. Memories have crept under his skin and itch in a way that he can’t scratch. He thinks about jerking off to relieve the tension but every time he lets his mind wander, it goes back to Missy and fucking New Orleans. 

He never thought some half-baked act of do-goodery would come back and bite him in the ass like this. 

Kicking off the sheet, he gets out of the bed and storms out of the room. As he stalks down the hallway, he can hear Daryl snoring from the room next to his. At least one of them is sleeping. He doesn’t give any thought of where Missy might be holed up for the night, so when he goes to the kitchen to get a beer and finds her sitting on one of the prep tables, he reaches for his pistol only to remember it’s safely under his pillow upstairs. He drags his hand over his face. One woman speaks two words and he’s one-hundred percent fucked. There’s something wrong with that math. 

“The hell you doing, girl?” 

She jumps down and immediately retreats to the back corner of the kitchen. “Nothing.” 

Yeah, that wasn’t suspicious. He also notices that her voice has changed slightly, losing the edge of roughness from earlier in the evening. He goes over to the wall and hits the light switch. She blinks and shies away from the harsh fluorescent lights but as he steps closer to her, he can see a blood stain on the front of her white skirt. It’s not large, not the sign of serious wound, but it’s startling to see none the less. 

“What happened to you?” 

“Nothing,” she repeats. “Go away.” 

The halting speech pattern is gone. Even though her answers are still short, he can tell she’s no longer struggling to speak. Despite her insistence that he leave, she doesn’t run from him when he finally gets within arm’s reach of her. Now that he’s up close, he’s surprised to see her skin color, still pale with a touch of gray, looks mostly normal. Her eye color is back to the deep green he remembers and her hair has regained some of the red coloring. 

She looks normal. 

She looks like she did twenty years ago…in New Orleans.

And she looks just as scared. 

He’s more than one-hundred percent fucked. But as he moves forward, his foot lands in something wet. It’s blood that is still dripping down her left leg and it’s enough to break him out of his trance. 

“Come on,” he wraps his fingers around her arm and tugs her back over to the prep table. Her skin feels moist from a mix of humidity and sweat but it’s not cold or clammy like the walkers. He tries to ignore how easily she follows him, how his hand still fits perfectly in the curve of her waist as he helps her back up onto the prep table. 

“It’s the tally marks,” she says quietly as she raises the hem of the skirt. 

Sure enough, there are about five cuts that are oozing blood and two that are bleeding heavier. He rifles around in the cabinets until he finds a couple clean rags, most likely used for dishes. He soaks one in water and grabs a dusty bottle of whiskey. 

“Alright,” he tells her as he unscrews the cap on the whiskey bottle, “hold your breath.” 

She takes it better than he expects. She doesn’t cry or make a sound when the alcohol hits the cuts. Instead, she screws her eyes shut and bites her lip. As he stands there pressing the dish rag against the cuts and watching blood blossom up into the white cloth, it dawns on him that the walkers don’t bleed like this. Living, breathing people bleed like this because their heart is working. He starts to raise his right hand to feel for a pulse only to remember he doesn’t have one anymore. It’s the first time since it happened that he had forgotten. 

“Hold this.” 

She does what he asks, pressing down on the now bloodied dish rag. He reaches up and presses two fingers against her neck. Her pulse beats against his fingertips strongly, and a bit too quickly. He did just put her through some significant pain which could explain away the rapid pulse and now deep blush that colored her cheeks. Under the harsh florescent lights, he sees the constellations of freckles that still spread across her face. He slides his hand up from her neck to the side of her face. She rests her cheek in his palm (another perfect fit) and smiles slightly, contently. 

He drags his thumb across the smattering of freckles on her cheek and releases the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He couldn’t remember the last time someone, anyone, had shown this kind of contentment in his presence. He had always been a mean son of a bitch and the apocalypse had only made him meaner. This feeling of peace in the midst of the storm, he is not prepared for this moment. He inhales a shaky breath and rests his forehead against Missy’s. She smells tangy, like someone who just had a fever break. He shifts slightly and his lips brush against the side of her face and she jumps slightly. 

Reality crashes down around him. The tranquility that had eluded him for years vanishes like a puff of smoke. It had only been a few hours previous that she could barely speak a word and looked like she was on her way to be a walker. Now, she’s talking normally, has a heartbeat, and all he can think about is how she felt underneath him twenty years ago. He steps back from her and sets to work on her wounds without saying anything. He wipes down the dried blood on her leg and replaces the soaked rag with a clean one. Grabbing a dish towel, he ties it around her leg to hold the make-shift bandage in place. 

“Done,” he states. “Now go get some sleep.” 

“Merle-“ 

“Go.” 

She slides off the prep table and stands there, stubbornly waiting him out. But he pulls a beer out of the refrigerator and cracks it open, ignoring her completely.   
“Merle.” 

“I said git.” 

She huffs in frustration but eventually he hears her padding on bare feet out of the kitchen. He drinks half the can of beer in one go before throwing the soiled dishrags into the stainless-steel sink. Sleep isn’t going to come to him at all so he finishes off the beer and grabs another one before heading outside to the porch. As he sat there, feeling the weak buzz of the alcohol and watching the sun rise, he couldn’t help but agree with his brother’s summation of him: he truly is a simple-minded piece of shit. 

And he is damned if he’s going to let Missy make the same mistake of trusting him again.


End file.
